Page 16 of Rescued By the Dog Trainer

I pull off my canvas coat and hang it by the door. The bunkhouse is quiet, the radiator ticking behind the wood stove, the heat starting to push the damp cold back. I make a pot of strong black coffee, the water bubbling against the tin pot.

When the silence settles, the noise in my head gets louder. It's the war, or the winter Jesse found me, or just the fact that Maren Hale is getting under my skin.

I pour a mug and sit by the window. The snow is coming down heavier now, whiteout conditions starting to close the pass. I look out at run seven. Juno's still standing by the gate, her sable nose pressed against the wire, scanning the dark.

She's waiting for Maren to show up tomorrow. And I'm waiting too.

I take a drink of the coffee, the hot liquid burning my tongue, but it doesn't wash the memory of Maren out of my head.

My hands are scarred, the skin rough and calloused from years of training and shoveling snow. They're the only steady thing I've got.

I set the mug down and close my eyes. The song is still there, three notes climbing, then dropping back to the root.

We'll see if she's on time tomorrow.

FIVE

Triage

MAREN

The noise in the PickAxe has a weight to it. It presses against the low timber rafters, a sharp rattle of glasses, heavy laughter, and the hiss of pine sap burning in the massive stone hearth.

I sit at the corner of the table, focusing to catch Eleanor's voice over the din. The physical throb in my right knee is always there, but inside the crowded bar, it's just background noise I have to push past.

"Mabel says you didn't touch your breakfast." Eleanor Morgan slides a heavy mug of dark beer across the rough-sawn pine. The foam spills over the side to pool on the wood. "A woman your size needs fuel. Especially up here. The mountain doesn't negotiate."

"I had coffee." I keep my hands flat on the cool wood. "That's enough to run on."

"Coffee is water with an attitude, Major." Mabel Wilson hums, her fingers knitting a gray wool sleeve long enough for an elk. "You're at this altitude now. You need real fuel."

"I'm not a Major anymore, Mabel. Just Maren. And the altitude doesn't change how I run." I shift my weight, finding a position that keeps pressure off my right knee. "I do fine on caffeine."

"Let her be, Eleanor." Ruth Fletcher leans over the bar, her forearms red from the dishwater as she wipes down a glass with a gray towel. "The army doesn't teach people how to sit still. She's still on duty."

I don't correct her. Air Force, not Army. Civilians default anyone who ever wore green canvas to the Army anyway, and I'm too tired to explain the difference.

"I can sit still just fine." My eyes stay locked on the yellow foam. "I'm retired, Ruth. It's just Maren."

"We'll see." Eleanor shifts. "The snow has a way of stretching sixty days into six months, six years, and before you know it, you'll be as old in the tooth as we are. The pass is already ice-packed at the summit. If the wind stays north, we're locked in by Friday." Eleanor's Bronco keys clatter on the wood. Her bright orange winter coat stands out in the dim bar.

"The switchbacks are clear enough for the 4Runner." My thumb traces the lip of the mug. "Handled worse ice than this."

"For now." Ruth sets the glass down with a thud. "But the salt trucks don't run past Silver Line after dark. You get stuck, you stay stuck."

I don't answer, watching the logs in the hearth settle as the room fills. The heat is dry, carrying the sharp resin of burning tamarack.

The other trainees sit further down our long table.

"The wind is coming off the ridge." Danny Montoya tears the corner off a paper napkin, his ears red from the gale outside. "Sounds like the valley outside Gardez. That low hum through the wires. The way the tin roofs rattle before a dust storm."

"It's just wind, Montoya." Nadia Vega sits square in the booth, her thumbs tucked into her jeans pockets. "Nothing behind it but cold. Focus on the table. Eat your stew."

"The heater pads were ticking at lockup." Brody Gavin rubs his graying beard, his voice heavy with the quiet guilt of a man sitting in a warm tavern while his dog stays behind in the barn. "If the summit power drops, those runs turn into iceboxes."

"The solar bank holds six days of reserve." Nadia keeps her tone level, a soldier's flat register. "Calhoun checked the cells before the snow started. The pads stay hot."

Griffin Reed keeps his eyes locked on his condensation-streaked glass, his thumb tracing a blue ink coordinate written across his wrist. His dog cut his shoulder on loose wire at the paddock fence yesterday. Even with the black nylon stitches holding the skin together, Griff hasn't looked up since we sat down. Leaving Chief in run two while the wind rattles the tin roof feels like leaving a wounded soldier behind.